Lonely Ballerina
by Blazon
Summary: She was such a small creature, really...timid and wide eyed in the darkness. Longing to touch and be touched, her hand raised before she could even control it. His amber eyes held her gaze... within their changeable depths was the truth.
1. Prologue

"Erik…" a tentative little voice chirped out through the darkness. She was small, like a little bird, her dark auburn hair tied back into a low bundle, framing a pair of dark eyes that seemed to be wider than normal.

The boy watched her.

"Erik, I must go away for a little while."

"Why?" His voice--already showing the first signs of the commanding baritone it would become--echoed through the empty opera.

"I am forbidden…I can't tell you."

Years later, as a grown man, the boy called Erik would recognize that sound. He would hear it in another woman's voice, and then he would know everything. But, for now, the tall boy stood in the shadows, more uncomfortable now with his suddenly-long limbs, his sudden growth of stature, body hair, and emotions.

There was a silence between them, thick and painful.

"Erik, can I not tell you good-by?" The girl's eyes were filling with tears; even the shadows could not hide their glistening presence from the boy's perceptive gaze.

He stepped out of the shadows.

Standing apart from each other, like two statues in a graveyard, frozen in time, they stared at each other.

Then, striding forward slowly, purposefully, she rose up on talented feet, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

The boy didn't flinch, not anymore. He was used to her touch.

They parted, and he watched her scamper into the darkness. It would be years before he would see her again, and by then, what ever they might have had would be gone.

But not quite.


	2. Chapter 1

Night in the Opera Populaire was a sight that few saw, and even fewer enjoyed. There was a sinister cast to the shadows of half-lowered battens, bits of castle and sky and forest hanging haphazardly about the spacious stage, drapes of fabric framing the draped ropes that hung, searching for their marionettes.

Meg stretched out her arms, wincing at the tense muscles in her neck, back, and shoulders. Stupid admirers--men who waited by the back door, bearing chocolates, flowers, and who knows what manner of diseases--never knew that the last thing on any respectable dancer's mind after a three-hour torture session was a romp in the hay. And people thought her feet would hurt. Well, of course they hurt. The cardboard and satin had shaped her feet into the perfect instruments, like a luthier, slaving over the perfect piece of wood.

Of course they hurt.

But there was a tension in her body that went far beyond pain. Dancers knew pain, intimately, like a lover knows his beloved. They cherished it, sculpted it, and made it look lighter than air.

And, occasionally, they found themselves alone, surrounded by a penetrating silence in a vast, cavernous darkness.

Meg bent down and stretched, bringing her hands to the floor. She had discarded her pointe shoes for cotton stockings, shed her costume for a simple dressing gown and nightshift. Nobody ever saw her here--who would? All the girls were asleep, her mother's hawk gaze had rested for the evening, and even the lecherous stagehands had gone off to carouse in their own special way.

No, she was alone; she liked it that way. There was no gaggle of girls to compare her talents to, no group of younger ballerinas-in-training who simultaneously worshiped and envied her. No men, fawning over her, praising her with such single-minded determination that she sometimes wondered if sheer will could steal away virginity. No mother, no routine, no schedule.

It was a breath of fresh air.

Smiling slightly, Meg clutched the sides of her dressing gown around her body. It was a beautiful gown, coral-colored and very well-suited to her dark complexion. Blondes were "in" this season, and her friend, Christine, was having a time of it. Her delicate Scandinavian figure and coloring was surely part of the reason for her recent success. Meg wished her all the best; she had no desire to achieve that level of success, when men like the Vicomte de Chagny waited at her doors. He wasn't the sort of man that anyone, no matter how quick their rise to fame, should refuse.

Meg sighed. She heard the echo of her small noise come back to her in the next few heavy seconds.

Someone was watching her.

She could feel it like a weight on her skin. The air was suddenly thick, somehow, with an unknown presence. There--a movement off in the shadows. An open side-door had brought a breeze of frigid night air and the scent of alcohol into the opera. Meg began to back up, and turned to head back down the corridor. Something wasn't right here.

Meg turned, and ran right into the solid chest of one of the stagehands. He grinned down at her foully, and she felt someone behind her grabbing her arms, pinning them down to her side. She began to fight them then, not knowing how many of them were there, watching, waiting, and just how far they would go.

She was stupid… stupid! Why had she not gone back to her room?

The man before her stepped into the light, and she saw him clearly. Joseph Buquet.

"Let me go." It was a command, as close as she could make it sound like her mother.

They laughed, one low and rough before her, one high-pitched and whiny in her ear. She felt the scrape of a beard as the man behind her clasped her close.

"How fortunate," Joseph began, sliding one of his sweaty hands down the front of her dressing gown. "You've already done the hard work for us, little Giry."

She fought harder now, kicking and twisting, trying to do anything but be forced down to the ground. But there were two men, two men with more muscle behind them than a dancer. Her back hit the wood floor, and her head was flung back--hard. For a moment, she thought the gaslights had been ignited, but it was only the stars swimming in her vision. One man held her arms above her head, pressing down so tightly on her wrists that her fingers went numb in only a few moments. The other bunched her skirts up, sitting on her knees to keep her from moving away.

Suddenly, she remembered her voice.

Meg screamed out, and unintelligible stream of curses and pleas. Her eyes were still cloudy and her limbs were numb, but she fought even harder, biting the hand that came to cover her mouth, hearing the man behind her curse and fumble with something--a bit of rag he hastily stuffed into her mouth.

She could feel someone's hands on her body, parting her thighs roughly, pawing like a beast. But he was sitting on her knees, and couldn't figure out how to part them. He was just figuring out this problem when his eyes widened in shock.

It was only a moment, a small squeak of air escaping his lungs, before he fell over, dead. The Punjab lasso was pressing a purple necklace into his throat, and his neck was bent at an unnatural angle.

The man behind her ran, leaving Meg there on the floor, gasping and gagging through the rag in her mouth, worrying more over breathing than her forgotten modesty. Her hands and feet shot through with pins and needles, sensation and blood returning to cold limbs. She fumbled, her fingers unresponsive.

A gentle gloved hand pulled the fabric from her mouth.

If she had been able to see him, Meg would have seen that his eyes--red with anger and the passion of the kill--were averted.


	3. Chapter 2

She woke up in her bed, scrambling through the sheets as if they too were arms that held her down. It hadn't been a dream, of that she was sure. Red marks on her thighs and an ache in her skull that wouldn't go away were proof enough. She had a vague memory of last night, but didn't remember how she got back to her room.

Meg cursed, hearing her mother's voice calling the dancers, telling them to wake up, get ready for practice. She would go to practice, and perform tonight, just as scheduled. It was closing night for Il Muto, and the only thing Meg liked about the opera was that, as a supporting dancer rather than a troupe dancer, she had less practices to go to. Of course, that had only worked for a few weeks before her mother, iron-clad warship that she was, demanded that Meg participate in them anyway.

Well, it didn't matter. Madam Giry's eyes could see smirks and jeers directed at her head, but she would never see this. Nobody had to see this.

Meg splashed some water on herself from the basin and grabbed a pair of thick tights, flesh-colored to give the illusion of bare leg but nearly as iron-clad as her mother. Over top of those went her practice dress, and she hung her pointe shoes around her neck.

Pratcice was a grueling hour of Ballotté à terre and Sissonne fermée, before they even got to working on Échappé sur les pointes. As usual, any workers caught relaxing or not working up to standard were chastised. Madam Giry would watch each night's performance and give them tasks every morning, along with commentary on their failings. She walked behind a row of them now, her own black slippers visible beneath the shortened hem of her practice skirt.

Meg had made the mistake once, only once, of calling her "mother" during rehearsal. Later, pulled aside as her fellow dancers streamed out of the room, eager for breakfast, she too had been chastised.

"I am not your mother in this room, Meg Giry!"

Ten at the time, Meg had began to sob into her hands. She didn't understand how someone could stop being a mother when it suited them. She had learned, though, and if Madam Giry's gaze detected any soreness in Meg's body, she didn't say anything.

Later, the girls sat down in the café to eat, some still vainly clinging to a modest pace, others, like Meg, ate as if it were their last meal. Meg was small, but she had the look of a girl who could fill out, given the chance. She was always hungry, and attacked her croissant with enthusiasm.

There was something within her that said, 'Just pretend. Don't say anything. Nobody needs to know.'

Annette, across from her, poked Meg on the arm. "Meg, have you been listening to a word we've been saying?"

Meg chewed, swallowed, and shook her head. "No, I'm sorry… what?"

"I've been saying, the managers said this morning, a body was found in the first cellar!" Flora, to her left, seemed to relish this opportunity to re-tell her gossip of the day.

And it was so early in the day, too, Meg thought. She must be in heaven.

Some of the girls who also had not been paying attention, now gasped. Cries of, "Murder?" and "Le Fantôme?" went up around the table.

Meg stiffened, feeling the throb of her scratched thighs flare up. Yet, even as the wave of shock hit her, it washed over, leaving nothing but a surprisingly powerful anger in its wake.

"What do you think, Flora?" Annette continued, picking at her salad.

"They said he was strangled…" Flora began, and scowled at a younger girl who started to interrupt her. "Strangled with some kind of rope. The marks were still there, all dark and bloody…"

"Oh, do stop!" Aline cried. She was only thirteen, a prodigy, some said, but hardly accustomed to this gruesome talk. "Stop, Flora! You're just making this up!"

Flora's green eyes narrowed. "No, I am not. Firmin told me… he told me this morning."

It was an unspoken fact that Flora had been sleeping with Firmin for some time now. She was one of the older dancers in the troupe, good, but not good enough to be Prima Ballerina, like Sorelli. She was settling in for a comfortable retirement and future as his mistress, and, though the other girls never spoke of it, none of them could really blame her.

"And, anyway, he said that they are having Buquet do a double shift, giving him extra time off to compensate."

At this, Meg froze, her appetite gone. Around her, the girls were chattering, thrilled with the news, offering their own gruesome versions of what had happened. But Meg heard none of them.

Instead, there was a terrible roar in her ears, a fury that drowned out all reason and sound.

She rose from the table, heard herself mutter some excuse, and left, walking too calmly across the plaza to the entrance of the Opera Populaire. Twists and turns were familiar to her, and she found herself in the water-closet down the hall from her dormitory.

A vision had come to her mind, the smirking monkey-face of Joseph Buquet, wrenching her hands down, hands feeling her breasts as if he owned them…

She bent over the sink and retched, heaving out all of her breakfast into the basin.

The memory of that touch sickened her, and she nearly cried out in fear. Why had she come here? Why had she walked, trance-like, to this building? Why hadn'd she run away, far away, and never given him the chance to touch her again.

She heaved again at that thought, but it was empty. Meg wiped her mouth with a towel, splashed some water on her face. In the mirror, her dark eyes were sunken and dead.


	4. Chapter 3

"If you are seeing someone, Marguerite, now is the time to tell me."

A cold voice from behind her snapped Meg out of her moment of tentative calm. It was her mother.

"Believe me," she continued, walking slowly towards her daughter, "It is not a path you want to go down. They will flatter you, yes, but think of your career first."

Yes. It was her mother. Always career first, never time to actually be a mother, a nurturer.

Meg shook her head slowly, feeling her stomach settle. "No, maman. I am not seeing anyone."

Their eyes met, dark brown to nearly inky black. Madam Giry seemed satisfied with what she saw there, or perhaps, what she didn't see, and smiled gently.

"I do trust you, Marguerite." She put her black-clad arm around her daughter gently, leading her out the doorway. "I want you to know that. I know we have not had the time to be… close, but I was a young girl once. You can talk to me about anything, whenever you need it."

"Thank you, maman." Meg parroted, before she could stop herself. The routine was too well-rehearsed; she didn't know why she wasn't telling her.

"Did something at breakfast not agree with you?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well, why don't you lie down, rest a little."

"I'll only have a few minutes before practice, I- "

"Skip practice." Madam Giry's mouth twitched into a smile. "I won't tell on you."

Meg stared at her mother, then returned the smile, slowly. Madam Giry patted her daughter's arm, then strode off down the hall, towards the rehearsal rooms.

It was a ruse, of course. Meg hadn't grown up in this world for nothing, and she knew fear when she saw it. There hadn't been many times that she had seen it in her mother's eyes, but now, after what had happened, she knew to look for it.

Her mother was scared. Of what, Meg didn't know. She walked to her dormitory, laying down on the bed without disrobing. Somehow, it just seemed too much to be naked in this air, never knowing who was watching her, plotting to attack again.

Meg shivered.

She didn't sleep. Instead, she lay there, recalling the last time she had seen that expression in her mother's eyes. It had been a month ago, maybe longer. Christine had just debuted on stage, taking the lead unexpectedly when Carlotta, in one of her familiar fits of entitlement, had stormed off. That night, Meg had spoken to her friend in the chapel. They had met there often, each one having a lost father to grieve for. That fact had bonded the girls since Christine had arrived. Meg remembered meeting the little girl, then only six years old and underfed, at the smoky train station. Clasping their hands together, the girls had become fast friends, teaching and learning languages and secrets… But not all of their secrets. There were some things that even best friends never learned.

That night, the night of Christine's debut, Meg finally learned what Christine had been hiding. Someone or something was singing to her friend, speaking to her, instructing her… or, at the cruelest, playing a prank. At the time, Meg had hatefully wondered why her father never spoke to her from the grave. Then, she supposed, her father had died at sea, or so her mother said. When she spoke about him at all.

Christine's eyes had lit up when she told her friend about her secret lessons with an 'angel'. Her childhood had afforded her two things that Meg never had: A father and an imagination. Angelic tutelage may have made sense in Christine's mind, but to Meg, it was nothing more than wishful thinking. Let the girl believe she hears her angel. What harm will it do?

Later that night, Meg had gone to visit her friend, to sneak into the dressing room which had once lay empty, waiting for Carlotta, who usually kept her own apartment down the street. When Meg had opened the door, and found the passage behind the mirror, she had suddenly understood that it was more than imagination, possibly more than a prank.

But she had never found out for sure.

Her mother was there, as she always was, and Meg had been dragged down to her mother's room and given the scolding of her life.

"…And you will never roam about at night, do you hear me?"

"But, maman, Christine was gone!" Meg had replied, confused and angry.

"She returned to the dormitory, as you will soon." Her mother had replied, glancing away. "But Meg, believe me, this may be our home, but it is not only our home."

Meg had been sent to bed. She wondered, later, why she didn't check Christine's bed that night, for Christine had not returned to the dormitory. She had disappeared, and a flurry of letters, threats, and fear descended like snow on the Opera Populaire.

But somehow, Meg knew that whatever--or whomever-- this Opera Ghost was, he was hardly a threat compared to those men… those men…

Turning to her side, Meg squeezed her eyes shut, willing that image, that feeling, to flee from her mind. A few deep breaths and it was fading, but not without the unexpected memory of black leather gloves, holding her close, carrying her like a child, placing her in her bed.

Her eyes opened.

The Opera Ghost. She understood now; he had saved her.


	5. Chapter 4

It may have been nothing more than her fitful lack of a nap, but Meg was feeling decidedly uneasy. Her tightly-laced bodice pushed her breasts up to a gravity-defying height, and she had the horrible feeling that she might loose more than change down her cleavage… men's gazes seemed to follow her everywhere, caressing her form like flies in the summer.

Meg crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously, avoiding meeting anyone's eyes.

Her hair was put up in the ridiculous chinigon-and-curls that she had worn for the past week of performances, and a little frilled maid's cap was pinned atop it, frothy with lace and ribbon to match her dress.

It wasn't a very practical dress, not for a maid, anyway, but then again, this was opera. It wasn't reality, or anywhere near it.

Waiting in the wings for her cue, Meg looked up nervously. She knew Buquet was above her, but she hoped that his double work would keep him occupied. It was foolish, she knew, but the fear was there, and it was real.

The overture began, and Meg watched the three singers dart out and begin their routine, an introduction to the play. Meg stepped out behind the curtain, taking her place stage left, watching a very uncomfortable Christine and a very bored-looking Carlotta prepare for their opening pose, a very risqué one at that.

The curtain went up; Meg's smile was somehow plastered on her face, she never knew where it came from but it was there every night, like part of her make-up which only appeared under the right lighting. She frolicked about, moving through each pose--opening the mock door, getting spanked, being more astounded than humanly possible-- and then she heard it.

A voice from the rafters was shouting down at them.

"Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept… empty?"

Beside her, Meg saw Christine stiffen, saw her eyes go wide from fear, but the only sensation in her body was relief. Her rescuer was here.

"He's here… the Phantom of the Opera…" She heard herself say, turning to nobody in particular, feeling a sort of peace wash over her.

Yet almost as soon as those words had been spoken, Meg heard Christine beside her.

"It's him."

Her angel was the Opera Ghost… Of course it was! Who else would have the power to travel, unseen, throughout the opera? To project his voice, as he had done now, and remain hidden. The gaslights and the light of the chandelier was so bright in all the performers' eyes that they could hardly see the audience, let alone the source of the voice.

Yet the bravely carried onward with the play--Meg felt the plaster-smile go back up on her face, turning to encourage Christine to do the same. But the girl was still frowning, and soon enough, any amount of smile wouldn't save the play from the approaching catastrophe.

Carlotta croaked.

They scrambled to pick up the pieces as Carlotta ran, panicking, off stage. It was well enough for her, Meg thought as she ran too, she had her entourage to flee to, her tantrums to have. But the rest of the cast, watching as the curtain closed and the managers made their excuses, hastened to re-arrange the set. Up high, Meg could see the flash of red of Joseph Buquet's shirt, and shuddered.

The dancers were coming on stage now, bringing out reluctant and confused sheep, more confused than usual, and the curtain opened. The dancers, to their credit, had so many years of experience with Madam Giry's training that this sudden change hardly altered their impeccable performance. They pranced and spun and the sheep tottered about looking absurd.

But they only had a moment to distract the audience.

Something like a piece of scenery--that's what some thought, at first--fell abruptly down into the crowd. Meg knew better. That flash of red was a shirt, and the shirt belonged to a man, now a corpse, which swung like an obscene sandbag above the dancers' heads.

She screamed out of shock.

It was all over; there was no salvaging of tonight's opera now. The body swayed horribly, then fell to the stage with a sickening thud, the sound of jellied flesh and bone. His muscles, clenched to resist the choking for his last terror-filled moments of life released, and he lay in a puddle of blood and urine.

Some of the girls ran away, clustering like their sheep on the edges of the stage. Some ran forward. Meg ran with them, wanting to see, wanting to know that he was dead, truly dead. She didn't dare look upwards. She knew it would break the moment.

Thank you, she thought. Thank you, whomever you are.

Meg walked off stage.


	6. Chapter 5

"You're in shock, poor thing." Madam Giry was bustling about the dormitory in a decidedly unusual motherly way. "Here, drink this, Meg?"

Meg sat on her bed, still in her costume, and reached out absently to take the proffered cup.

She smelled it, took a sip. Chamomile. To make her sleep. Maybe her mother's hawk-eyes hadn't missed the sunken look her daughter now carried.

But, if lack of sleep and abundance of fear had robbed her daughter of sleep, the strange peace which now enrobed her gave Meg a strange, complacent glow.

"Drink, Meg."

Meg complied, smiling at her mother but looking past her, across the alcove to where Christine lay, silent as a china doll. Christine was staring at a rose that was on her little bedside table, a lush red rose, tied with a black silk ribbon. Some of the petals had fallen onto the table, some, onto the floor.

Madam Giry moved on, spreading comfort and tea as best as she could. Some of her girls were no more than fourteen, Aline, the youngest, wasn't here. Her mother had come to fetch her, some said. She was going to stop dancing. Meg hoped not. Aline was better than she was, by far, and Meg was three years older than she was. Meg knew the steps, but didn't always have the heart for it. But when Aline danced, it was like watching emotions fly. That girl had a gift.

Meg looked around the room, seeing some of the older dancers sitting up on their beds, whispering, eyes wide. Flora was among them, and Meg saw that she was the most talkative. Even a harsh glance from Madam Giry couldn't stop her for long.

"Christine." Meg whispered, turning her attention back to her friend who still lay, motionless, in her little bed.

"Christine?"

"Raoul has asked me to marry him, Meg." Her voice was little more than a whisper; Meg had to read her lips to hear her properly.

"He took me up to the roof--that's where I went, after… you know."

Christine rolled onto her side. "He asked me to marry him, to leave dancing and go with him. He said he loves me, Meg."

Meg smiled. "That's wonderful, Christine."

"But I didn't say Yes." Christine continued, her eyes rimmed with tears. "I didn't say no, either, but-"

"Christine, he is the Vicomte de Chagny!"

"I know!" Christine snapped out of her tearful silence, glaring at Meg. "You think I don't realize that, realize who he is?"

Meg was silent. She hadn't ever seen her friend so truly distraught, not since she had first arrived, and spoken of her father. "Do you… do you love him?"

"Oh, I do love him, very much."

"Then?"

"This is my world, Meg. Before I came here, I lived in a one-room shack with a violin teacher. Before that, my father used to pile straw over us in the darkness that smelled like donkeys and cows, to keep us warm when we slept in other people's barns. I got my first pair of shoes, real shoes, when I was seven! This is my world!"

Her voice rose as she answered, and, when she was finished, she slumped back down onto the pillow, as if it had drained her. "He doesn't understand that."

"Could you be happy with him, and away from dancing?" Meg said, twisting the mug of tea in her hands. "Could you learn to live in his world?"

"I don't know."

They lay there in silence for some time, Meg occasionally sipping on her tea, Christine staring, once again, at the rose. Finally, Meg's curiosity got the better of her.

"Did Raoul give you that?"

"No."

The answer was so quick and so definite that Meg couldn't help but jump a little. But she didn't ask, though the temptation to do so was nearly overwhelming.

When we were little, she thought, Christine never hid things from me. But we are women now, and that's what women do.


	7. Chapter 6

The weeks after the 'incident,' as it came to be known, passed with little activity. A new opera was set for rehearsals, and Carlotta was throwing tantrums left and right. In short, it was as if nothing had happened. It seemed that the lives of two stagehands of dubious moral quality was inconsequential.

But to Meg, everything had happened. The girl who once had been her best friend, her confidant, had grown up. It had happened so quickly that Meg thought Christine had been pretending, at first. But the light of inquiry was gone from her eyes, and even the joy of the upcoming bal masque could provoke only a slight smile.

"What do you think?" Meg held up a roman guardsman's tunic, pressing it to her frame experimentally. "Does it suit me?"

Christine murmured a noncommittal noise, gazing out the window into he grey skies.

"Christine, it's a man's uniform." Meg snapped. "Wake up! What has come over you?"

"I'm sorry, it's just…there's so much on my mind these days."

Meg pressed a comforting hand onto her friend's shoulder. "I know. Just stay awake, and help me choose a costume! We've got less than a week to pick one, and most of them are gone already."

It was common knowledge that many of the dancers and workers who managed to get an invitation to the masque would simply borrow costumes from the opera itself. The last opera had a white and gold scheme, but the paleness of most of them just didn't suit Christine's already washed-out complexion.

Meg put the roman soldier's costume back into the racks and kept digging. There were all sorts of very revealing costumes, but she knew enough about her friend to know that she'd never wear one anywhere but the stage.

Finally, she found it. "Here, what do you think?"

It was a peach-rose dress, soft and flowing. It was in an older style, out of date by at least twenty years, but it was a bal masque--wasn't dressing up the point?

"Oh, Meg!" Christine cried, showing more enthusiasm than she had in several days. "It's just… it's perfect. Thank you."

"Go on then, see if it fits."

"Oh, I couldn't… not here." Christine smiled again, but Meg caught the stolen glances at the walls, at the window. "I'll… I'll change back at the dormitory."

Meg almost said something, almost admonished her fragile friend for her foolishness, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she smiled too. "That's a good idea."

She dove back into the racks, searching now for something for herself. Her dusky complexion and dark hair looked good in gold, she thought, and she pulled out several gowns, examining them before putting them back.

"I think I'll go there now… No, don't stop looking on my account." Christine turned to go. "Thanks again, Meg. I'm sure it will be perfect."

Meg waved her away, then turned back to the racks. But what she truly sought, answers, would not be hung here with the swaths of fabric and trim.

Why was Christine so distant? The only answer Meg could gather was that her friend no longer trusted her. Somehow, they had become distant. Christine, on the cusp of womanhood, true, titled womanhood, had pushed away the one connection to France--Meg--that she had ever had. It had been Meg, nearly two years her junior, who had reached out to the foreign girl, Meg who taught her French, Meg who helped her understand what Madam Giry was teaching her.

She swallowed back and unexpected wave of--something. Jealousy? Not exactly.

Meg's hand brushed against something feathered, and as she pulled the costume out to examine it, she smirked. It would do. A forgotten bodice from a swan's costume, paired with a more modern bustled overskirt that, though from a different opera, had been cut from the same bolt of cream-and-gold changeable taffeta. On a nearby rack, she found an underskirt to wear with it. It was a masquerade; wasn't dressing up the entire point?

Later, when she finally tried the whole ensemble on, she lamented to her friend. "Christine, this neckline is ridiculous."

"No, it's pretty."

Christine now gathered up her hair, which was curled in the kind of perfect ringlets that never seemed to last for Meg, and smiled down at her. "You just need to pull your hair up, come here."

For a moment, it was like they were children again. Christine worked Meg's inky hair into a high twist, and found some white feathers to stick into it.

Meg smiled; She thought she looked more like a cockatiel than a swan.

They went down the twisting staircase and made their way out into the ballroom. Almost immediately. Christine saw Raoul and went to him, making quite a show of trying not to kiss him.

Sighing, Meg stood alone off to the side of the ballroom, watching her mother, the managers, the dancers, the guests with equal measures of boredom. Again she felt compelled to cover herself, but, with danger averted, she forced her arms to remain at her sides.

It was a whirling, spinning kaleidoscope of colors--primarily white, gold and black, as Meg had guessed from the way the racks were picked over--but she had no interest to join the twisting mass of people. As the evening wore on, it became less and less hidden that the bal masque was merely an excuse to fondle anonymously. Here and there, couples that had been paid to come dance now fell out of the throng of bodies, pressing each other up into walls, alcoves, and behind darkened pillars, hands roaming madly and without consequence. There was freedom in the dark anonymity.

Suddenly, though, the mood shifted. Smiles fell from faces as they watched the newest arrival, or, for some, the remained intact, but the eyes betrayed their fear.

The Red Death had arrived, sword in hand, and he was not playing games.


	8. Chapter 7

The point of his drawn sword glittered dangerously in the twirling light, and he gestured to the gaggle of admirers that surrounded Carlotta and Piangi. They backed away, cowering under his green-gold stare. The outfit he wore somehow concealed and revealed at the same time, and in a sea of cheer and lust, his presence was like ice.

Meg's breath caught in her throat; she hadn't seen him this close since… since then.

She wished she could go thank him, somehow, but she stayed put, too enthralled, too afraid to even move.

"Why so silent, good messieurs?" The Phantom began, striding purposefully down the staircase. Did you think that I had left you for good? Have you missed me, good messieurs? I have written you an opera!"

His tone was a mocking sing-song, yet full of such raw power that some of the women were moving closer, almost without realizing it. Yet the men in the crowd, Meg could see as she glanced away, were unsettled. Some reached for weapons, some merely held their own partners closer. Meg saw one man's hand clamp down on the wrist of his companion so hard that his knuckles were white--and realized it was Raoul, gripping Christine as if she were about to throw herself over a building.

"Here I bring the finished score -- 'Don Juan Triumphant!'"

The folio which had been clutched in his leather-clad hands was thrown to the floor, where it opened, scattering pages. They were covered with complex scrawling musical notations. Even Meg, who couldn't read music terribly well, could tell that the score was more complicated than any opera she had seen before.

The red-clad ghost before them was still singing: "I advise you to comply--my instructions should be clear. Remember there are worse things than a shattered chandelier."

Shattered chandelier? What does he mean by that? Meg heard the cry began to go up in the crowd; she was not the only one who was growing fearful at this new proclamation. But if the man who now held them in thrall had heard it, he didn't do anything to change his course.

He was walking towards Christine. Meg looked at her, and was shocked to see that Raoul had left her.

Why had he gone? Why had he not stayed to protect her?

But something was happening between them, like an electrical current, running from Christine's pale eyes to the Phantom's eerie green, which looked amber in the light. He was pulling her up towards him, like a wave, like an animal who knows her final captivity, who desires it.

The spell, suddenly, was broken.

The Phantom grabbed for her, and came away with a yank and a glittering piece of triumph in his hand.

"Your chains are still mine!" He bellowed, teeth bared. "You will sing for me!"

And, in a flash, he was gone.

A wave of terror rose up in the assembled onlookers. Some surged forward, as if in pursuit, some retreated, tripping on their gowns and fripperies, and no-one at all thought to pick up the music that lay there.

Seconds later, when the smoke began to clear, Meg saw a flash of blue and gold fly by her, Raoul, returning, a borrowed sword in his hands. He jumped into the pit which had opened, Hades-like, in the floor of the ballroom.

Meg rushed forward, stupidly, thinking she could stop him, but her mother's tight grip upon her arm halted her steps.

"No, Meg!" She cried, and turned to flee. "Stay with Christine, do you hear me?"

Meg nodded, then, waiting till she was out of sight, turned to Christine.

But she was gone too, and Meg felt pressed by the current of bodies around her. She felt as if she was drowning in the panic which did not belong to her. In her mind, there was only a sort of focused clarity--get the music.

She surged forward, pushing with all her might, digging her way through, against the tide, till she could stoop down and gather the paper together. Meg pressed it to her chest.

I can't be responsible for Christine, Meg thought. She's gone. It's not my fault.

So she did the only thing she knew to do. Running now, breaking away from the crowd, she worked her way back up to the dormitories, hiding the music under her bed, making it safe from… she wasn't sure whom.

She stood there for a long while, breathing heavily. Then, like a flash, it came to her.

Maman… she would know.

Meg darted back down the hall, coming upon her mother's room. She pressed her ear to the door, and heard nothing. Tentatively, she opened the door, and was surprised to see it was empty. She glanced around, looking for a sign, something, anything, that would show her the secret.

What does she know that she won't tell me?

A sound echoed down the hall--raised voices. Familiar voices.

Meg threw herself hastily in the only spot she could find--tucked away in the narrow corner behind her mother's bed. Just as the door opened, the voices carrying inside, she thought to rip the stupid feathers from her hair, and ducked down low.

"I know no more than anyone else…"

"That's not true!"

There was a pause; Meg thought she could hear a hand still on the door, the mechanism clicking in the stillness.

"Very well…"


	9. Chapter 8

"Clearly, Madam Giry, genius has turned to madness."

She stared into the mirror, looking at her withered reflection and at the arrangement of photographs at its base, yet seeing something that no-one in the room would ever be able to see--memory.

"Madness? No." She sighed. "No, it is a clarity of angels. He was never meant to be trapped like this."

"It hardly matters… I mean to say, it's not an excuse-"

"It matters more than you know, Monsieur le Vicomte." She turned back, meeting his gaze and holding it. "Tell me, do you remember when you were a little boy? Do you remember that moment when you realized that the world was a cruel, unforgiving place? That you could trust no-one but yourself?"

"Yes…" He began.

"No, you do not remember, because you never learned that lesson."

Raoul sat back, offended, as understanding began to settle in his mind.

Meg frowned; watching the young man understand this fact made her wonder just what Christine saw in him. He was rich, to be sure, but any human with a heart would feel pain at what this poor man who Raoul now hunted had The privileged youngest son, babied and pampered and allowed just enough freedom to think himself worldly, how could he judge such a different life?

"Forgive me, Monsieur." Madam Giry smoothed a shaking hand over her hair. "I have said too much."

"My life may have been easy, may still be, but nothing gives a man the right to kill."

See if you can hold to that, Meg thought bitterly. Remember those brave words when you reach your goal.

Madam Giry rose, walking nervously to her vanity. "Yes, of course. He's never- I don't know why-"

"He must be stopped. Christine didn't ask for this."

Didn't she? Hadn't she confided in her friend, in broken, accented French, that she wanted nothing more than to hear her Angel of Music?

"If he finds out that we are leaving-"

Meg shifted in her hiding place, her shoe tapping lightly against the wall on accident. She heard the sound, and held her breath as she watched her mother tense like a coiled spring.

"I am sorry, Monsieur le Vicomte. I am tired and must retire for the evening."

"Oh yes, of course." Raoul stood. Meg could just see the back of his head as her mother opened the door, leading him towards it.

"Good night, Madam Giry. Thank you."

The door closed softly.

Madam Giry walked slowly around the room. Meg watched her, worried, as she scanned the walls--who, what was she waiting for?

And, more importantly, how was Meg ever going to sneak back out?

Meg crouched down quietly as her mother rounded the edge of the bed. No amount of crouching could make her invisible, and her mother's piercing gaze bored down into the girl's answering eyes. She was caught.

"Explain yourself, Marguerite."

In her mother's eyes, there was such a mixture of relief and anger that, for a moment, Meg was speechless. She had heard such information, seen such vulnerability that had never before been revealed to her, witnessed such conflicting and terrible things that she hardly knew how to act.

Finally, her mother reached down, hauling her none too gently to her feet.

"Get up."

Meg sat on the bed, kicking off her shoes and scrunching her toes into the carpet, a nervous, child-like gesture. She watched as her mother sat before her vanity, pulling out hair pins with a rough sort of determination. She grasped the boar-bristle brush, pulling it through her hair. Avoiding her daughter's inquiring gaze in the mirror.

"Maman, why did you never tell me-"

Madam Giry slammed her brush down onto the table; Meg jumped.

"Why does everyone- everything-"

"Maman…"

"Go to bed, Meg."

"No." Meg's tone surprised even her; she felt her spine stiffen. "No. You've only told him part of this, maman. I want to know the truth."

"The truth…" Madam Giry sighed. "The truth is complicated."

Meg was silent. Hopeful.

"I should never have returned here."

"Why did you leave?" Meg twisted her hair nervously. "When you were young. Why?"

"You." She smiled, though it didn't meet her eyes. "Your father… the letter arrived. He died at sea, and I couldn't dance any more."

"What was he like, my father?"

Madam Giry turned back to the mirror, reaching behind her to loosen the corset she wore over her stylized kimono.

"Tall."

"I mean… what was he like, as a person?"

Madam Giry sighed. "Meg, it's too late for these sort of questions."

"Maman, you asked me to trust you. You said once, not so very long ago, that I could ask you anything…"

She watched her mother become suddenly fascinated with her own hairbrush. The silence stretched on like a taut thread.

"Why did you tell him? Why do you want them to find him?"

To kill him, Meg felt like adding, but didn't.

"He killed two men, Meg!" Madam Giry said. "What was I supposed to do?"

"I know why he did it, though." Meg's voice was dark.

She told her.

"I didn't- why did you hide this from me?"

"I thought there was nothing to hide."

"Meg, this-"

But whatever she was going to say was interrupted by a knock at the door. Though it was soft, it was still loud and unexpected enough to make both mother and daughter jump.

Madam Giry rose and strode to the door. When it was opened, they were greeted with the tearful face of Christine.

"Madam Giry… I need to speak with you!"


	10. Chapter 9

"I think… I think I'm going crazy."

Christine stood in the doorway; her hands shook, and her eyes were full of tears, yet she looked as if she was more awake, more alive, than Meg had seen her for the past weeks. Her beautiful dress was torn at the hem, and some of the roses had been pulled out of her hair. Meg had never seen her friend look so utterly disheveled.

"Nonsense. Come here, child." Madam Giry hugged the trembling girl, leading her inside and closing the door.

"I must be crazy… I have everything a girl could want, but…"

Her voice trailed off. From any other girl, it could have sounded haughty; instead, it only sounded impossibly sad.

"Raoul wants to marry me." Christine sobbed. "He wants to take me away, give me a chateau, clothes, children-"

"Then why are you crying?" Meg whispered.

"I don't know!"

"Tonight, your angel frightened you-" Meg began, but her mother cut her off sharply.

"Meg, that is enough!"

"You love him, don't you?"

"Enough!"

Both of the girls looked up at Madam Giry.

"That's enough. You two have had a very busy night. I suspect that a good rest will calm your nerves, Christine. All young women are frightened of marriage, just a little. It is no shame."

"Madam Giry, I don't know how all of these feelings can be bottled up within me. I was so sure that everything would work. But I've been such a child…"

"Get some sleep." Madam Giry's face softened. "You'll feel better in the morning, trust me."

She turned her gaze to her daughter. "And Meg, you go with her."

They rose from the bed and left the room, feeling Madam Giry's gaze follow them down the hall, making sure they turned down the corridor and didn't go exploring. When they entered the dormitory, many of the girls were already asleep. Normally, they would be up and about, gossiping, whispering, relishing the scandal. But a curious blanket of sleep had fallen upon them. It was as if the night's events were not real.

Changing into their nightshifts, the two girls remained silent. It was only after they climbed into their own beds that Meg finally spoke.

"He gave you that rose, didn't he?"

There was no question which He she was referring to.

"Yes."

"And… he sings to you, he trains you?"

"Yes."

Meg lay there in the darkness. Now the surge of jealousy was unmistakable. She couldn't help but feel that her friend was nothing more than a fragile doll. She had it all--career, if she chose it, or illustrious, loving marriage--and yet hesitated. She was a fool.

No, Meg hastily corrected herself. Not a fool. Just a little girl who can't grow up, can't stop believing in an angel.

"I am going to my father's grave in the morning, Meg." Christine's voice was no more than a whisper, nearly drowned out by the wind outside of their window. "If you see Raoul, do not tell him. Promise me, Meg."

"I promise."

She breathed a sigh of relief, and Meg wondered why. "Good night."

The morning came far too quickly. It seemed that Meg had just burrowed to a comfortable position that she heard Christine walking around beside her, heading to the wardrobe, it seemed, to dress and make ready.

When she returned, brushing out her hair and washing her face, Meg rolled over and caught her glance.

"Christine," she whispered. "What will you find at his grave?"

"I don't know." Christine said, eyes downcast. "But I will find something."

Meg hoped this was true. She felt so sad for her friend, her anger and frustration softening as the sun rose, filling the dormitory with light and, soon enough, the sound of dancers waking up. Ignoring the questions about Christine's whereabouts, Meg washed and dressed, finding breakfast a much more agreeable proposition than gossip.

But, in the world of chiffon, pancake makeup, and potential sabotage, gossip was unavoidable. Her tea and brioche was hardly gone when the girls found her, eager to include her.

"They're doing the Opera, Meg!"

"What?"

Flora sat down beside her and waved at a waiter, one of the handsome ones. He grinned and began to ready her usual breakfast.

"How do you train them like that?" Meg said.

Flora laughed. "They train themselves, really."

He deposited the plate and steaming coffee at her table, his hand and gaze lingering just a little too long as it came in contact with hers. She fluttered her lashes at him and he turned, walking away slow enough for them both to be momentarily taken with his departing view.

"But you're not listening, Meg!" Flora bit into her croissant. "Monsieur Le Vicomte announced it just a few minutes ago. He came back on his white horse, you know, the pretty one, bleeding from the arm-"

"Was he hurt?" Meg gasped, unable to resist the gossip. "Was Christine with him?"

"Yes, she was." Flora looked confused. "But how did you know that?"

"Doesn't matter." Meg chewed thoughtfully.

"But he got the managers together, and your mother, and said that they were doing this… this… Don Juan Triumphant. I can't imagine why."

Meg couldn't either. But she wasn't stupid; she was going to find out just why the Vicomte's mind had been so quickly changed.


	11. Chapter 10

Rehearsals for Don Juan Triumphant began the next day without much fanfare and, truth be told, rejoicing from any of the cast members. Carlotta, in particular, was in fine form, insulting the work, the dissonance, the impossibility of the phrasing, the twisted, sexual lyrics. But she was not alone.

Whisperings, mutterings, and confusion surrounded the entire production. When the first mysterious sketches for costumes had arrived--provocative, Spanish-influenced garments in harsh reds and blacks--the dancers began to speak more openly.

"It's not an opera, it's a burlesque!"

"They may as well put a bed on stage, if you catch my meaning."

"My mother isn't coming--doesn't want to see it."

It made people uncomfortable, Christine especially. Her role as Aminta was a fragile one, as if it had been written with her in mind. Which, of course, it had. But few beside Meg and her mother--and Raoul, of course--knew that.

It had been Raoul's idea to carry on with the play. Though Firmin and Andrè had wanted to burn the papers when Madam Giry showed the leather-wrapped bundle to them (Meg had handed it over) Raoul convinced them to do otherwise.

The change worked in Raoul's boyish face was startling, almost frightening. He had arrived last night on horseback, hair disheveled and bleeding from the arm, a frightened Christine in his lap. Rumors flew, but nobody really knew what had happened. Even Meg had been so busy, she hadn't had a chance to satisfy her curiosity. She wanted to assure Christine that it had not been her who betrayed her location.

Raoul just had a way of finding things, Meg guessed. He was more and more like one of the famed hunting-hounds that his brother showed off in the town square. Lean. Agile. Single-minded to a fault.

Meg avoided him.

And, unfortunately, avoiding him meant avoiding Christine. She was everywhere he was, clinging to his arm gently, just the sleeve, or watching him as he spoke, ordering people about with a gentle smile that was not to be questioned. Meg wished that she could go to her friend, comfort her, but she wasn't sure that she was even able to do so anymore. Instead, she rehearsed, turning inward, perfecting her steps.

Whatever Christine had seen in him, that day on the beach so very long ago, when he dove into the sea to rescue her scarf, was hidden from Meg's eyes.

But, as they said, the show must go on. Now it was more important than ever. She wasn't supposed to know it, and her mother would be furious if she did, but Meg knew that Christine was to be bait for a trap, a trap which, if Raoul had his way, would make a final end to the entire problem at hand.

It was a skill she had learned, a talent which only the invisible learn. Meg wasn't sure she liked that skill, but it certainly was useful, to a point. There was no way she could alert her rescuer, her protector of this, though she had the desperate urge to just start yelling it, knowing he was near, somehow.

But did she want to? Did she have the right to prevent what Christine, it seemed, truly wanted? Could she love a man and allow his death to be planned? Was it truly love that she and the Vicomte shared, love that was blind and heedless enough to plot murder for the greater good?

And Meg still hadn't told her about that night on stage.

Instead, she snuck out of the dormitory, waiting till the girls were all asleep, till the moon was bright overhead. She walked slowly and purposefully down the familiar hallways, listening to the silence and the rest which surrounded her.

Meg's stocking-clad feet slipped silently over the stage, aching from practice. It had been nearly four months since she had taken this nighttime stroll, and though she could say exactly why she had stopped it, she couldn't say why she had begun it again. It was only that the night beckoned her forward, and, with no other potentials for an attack lurking about in the shadows, she felt some of her confidence returning.

She eased into her stretches, feeling calf, leg, and thigh relax, bending and holding the poses with a deep breath, then exhale.

It feel right, somehow, to practice on the stage.

There--a flash of white in the darkness. Meg's head whipped around, her eyes straining to follow it. For a moment, she cowered in fear, her heart racing, ready to spring, to run away.

But it was as if he wanted her to see him. Meg relaxed a little, but was still guarded.

"Why do you want me to see you, Monsieur Le Fantôme?"

He chuckled, a sound like the distant rumble of thunder, barely traceable in the darkness. "You have sharp eyes, little Giry."

"So do you."

He walked casually into her field of vision; she could see the shape of his cloak-covered body, the way the cream and gold lining flickered just a little as he moved. It fascinated her almost as much as his mask, gleaming polished white in the darkness. The shadow which fell upon his face was contrary--one side, the brow raised, almost angry--the other, soft flesh, creases under the eyes betraying the hint of a smirk.

"Tell me, do you always watch me?"

"No." He said, smiling more clearly now. "You remind me of someone."

Meg was confused; the last person she could ever be mistaken for was Christine, and if the gossip was true, (and it usually was,) it was Christine that he watched, followed, taught… loved.

But she didn't say this.

Instead, she said. "Just sometimes, then?"

"When you dance." He was quick to reply, as if he'd rehearsed this answer. "When you walk at night."

She looked away. "I don't know how to thank you."

"You needn't."

"I must!" Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. "You rescued me. You gave them what they deserved."

The cloaked figure stilled, his face betraying a hint of amusement. "And… you decide what others deserve?"

"Yes." Her jaw as set; a muscle flexed in her cheek.

"Very well then. Happy to oblige."

He turned to leave.

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"What may I call my rescuer?"

He paused. "You read too much, little Giry."

And then he was gone, disappearing silently into the shadows, before she could even become indignant or try to tell him that it was a trap.

She hoped he knew, somehow.

And she wished she knew his name. It didn't seem right, not knowing it. She didn't like calling him Monsieur Le Fantôme, not anymore, not when she knew he was a real person.

Meg walked slowly back to her room. She couldn't have known that she had managed to frighten the great opera ghost, the creature who moved silently and ruled the nighttime. She couldn't have known that she was the first person in nearly twenty years to ask that simple question.

And she certainly couldn't have known that even Christine, his beloved, the one who had seen his lair, seen the darkness of his face and his soul, hadn't asked him that.

Well, she thought, I can't just walk up to people and start asking them. Yes, hello mother, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering just how you knew so much about the masked man who lives in our basement. Pardon the intrusion.

She shook her head, smirking as she ducked back into her dormitory.

Meg needed her sleep. The opera--his opera--was soon to be upon them, whether they wished it or not.


	12. Chapter 11

For the next two weeks, practice seemed to be the only thing between increasingly shortened periods of sleep. They were pushed beyond their classical training, slaving in the mirrored practice room till they were nothing more than shambling, sweat-soaked excuses for dancers. Then, listless and weary, they would return to snatch at sleep, idle days forgotten.

Under the note-inspired tutelage of Madam Giry, acting more demanding than ever, the girls were shaped and formed into dancing flame-sprites, twisted columns of red and black fury, and they danced as if flames were in their blood. It wasn't a dance-heavy opera, not like some where the plot was only an excuse to get girls to prance about on stage. Even their costumes were more symbolic than revealing.

No, this was an opera of music, pure and passionate, and if the dancers were tired, it was nothing to how the singers felt.

They couldn't help it; the music, from what little they had heard, demanded such precision. It was brash, oddly phrased, sensual beyond comprehension. It spoke of sex, raw passion, and a terrible price.

Yet the plot itself was straightforward; A lustful rake, Don Juan, tries to seduce a noble lady named Aminta, with the help of his friend the scoundrel Passarino. Her father, the commander Don Fernando, discovers them, and challenges Don Juan to a duel. Unfortunately, Don Fernando loses the duel and is killed. In the second act Don Juan comes upon a statue of Commander Fernando, who he mockingly invites to dinner. Yet the cursed statue arrives to dinner at the time Don Juan said, and tricks Don Juan into grabbing his hand, dragging Don Juan with him into Hell.

It was rather disturbing, especially since Aminta, the young and fragile girl who was entirely too much like Christine herself, was left at the end with no virtue, no father, and no hope for the future.

What was the moral? Is it better to give in to lust than refuse it? And what if your father isn't there to protect you?

But, for better or for worse, they were ready.

Meg hovered in the wings, standing beside her mother, trying not to fidget. She knew these steps, knew the music like she had been born hearing it. But stage fright was fluttering low in her stomach as she heard the sounds of the opera seats filling up, the rustle of evening gowns magnified with each movement against the velvet seats. Men's voices--talking, laughing--and the fluttering of fans rose and blended together until she couldn't discern one particular noise.

She breathed in deeply, and let it out.

"Are you all right?"

Meg tried to smile. "Yes maman."

"You know your piece, Marguerite." Her voice was tender, concerned. "You'll do well."

Surprised by this sudden show of affection, Meg wanted desperately to ask her all the questions--thousands of them, it seemed--which had welled up in her mind. But the orchestra had started up the overture, and Meg's mind went blank with the sudden clarity of an oncoming performance.

She drew a deep breath and ran onto the stage, turning and whirling in her practiced performance, catching the bag of coins and then sidling off as the lead actors began their work.

The stage had been transformed into a hellish pit, fabric 'flames' blowing upwards, rough-hewn beams were built into twining, rickety-looking staircases, and ropes hung here and there. All according to the plans which had mysteriously arrived in the manager's office on the same day as the notes on choreography. The costumers, too, and props department had been covered with notes like leaves on an autumn pathway.

And, even worse, some complained that even when the orchestra got the music right, it still sounded awful. Carlotta was often voicing this opinion, heedless of the fact that there were several heavy objects with her name on them, just waiting to fall.

But Carlotta sounded good tonight, better than usual, and if she had any complaints, they were well hidden. Meg wondered if this was the skill which kept so many of her admirers close at hand.

The audience began to shift uncomfortably, and Meg wondered, still keeping her expression neutral, just what, exactly, they thought the play was to be about? The plot had been publicized, no secret at all. Perhaps it had only been the scandal which drew them in.

Meg smiled as Don Juan made his exit, and heard Christine making her entrance. That was the dancers' cue to exit, and she did so, but watched the action unfold. There was some quiet shuffling commotion behind the curtains, and Meg frowned. Which one of the stagehands were fooling about there.

But, as Don Juan made his entrance once again, Meg's blood ran cold.

It was him.

Meg could only stare, wide-eyed, as her Phantom walked across the stage with such command, such power, that even the unappreciative audience had fallen silent.

You fool! Meg thought dismally. You've walked right into the trap… go now!

Yet she stood still, and watched. And listened.

If she had thought to turn and look beside her, she would have seen an expression of such bliss, such painful delight on her mother's face that it would have frightened her. Madam Giry's eyes were pressed shut, fighting back tears. They opened, aching to watch him move along the stage. His legs were lean and long, his body sensual as he moved to seduce Christine more completely than anyone could have known.

But Meg didn't see this. She was too enthralled with his singing, the passion of their duet as they came together, parted, and wound their way up the staircase. When at last they reached the top, Meg pried her eyes away from them for just long enough to see the glint of several rifles peeking through the glaring stage lights.

She longed to yell, to scream, to do anything but stand there, helpless.

And her mother felt it as well.

They had reached the culmination of their duet, and what had seemed merely a mockery of passion in what little Meg had seen of rehearsals was now orgasmic in its intensity. Christine spun, then rested in his arms. She leaned against his chest.

The music had cut out; It was supposed to be a final kiss, then curtain, to the morning after her seduction. But instead, the dark, masked figure bowed reverently over her ear, caressing her skin, whispering secret words that only they could know.

Christine's eyes fluttered and blinked. It was as if she was awaking from a dream. Meg saw her hand raise up to the mask, and bit her lip so hard it began to bleed.

No, don't do this… Please…

But it was too late; Erik felt the air hit the skin of his exposed face like a slap.

For a moment, there was utter silence.

Then, a noise like an explosion of voices. Meg saw him flinch, shudder, for just a moment, and she was immediately reminded of the sound of her mother's voice…

"They kept him in a cage… they would beat him, and pull him back by his hair, hold his arms so he couldn't even fight back …"

Meg covered her mouth in horror. How could Christine do this? That love which she had shown him, that truth that Meg thought she saw between them, had it all been acting? All lies?

But the body did not lie. Even as she recoiled, even as her face flinched, Christine's body pressed closer to his in those frozen seconds before he growled savagely.

His gloved hand reached for the safety rope, uncoiling it, grabbing Christine and dropping out of sight through a trap-door that wasn't to be used till the second act.

The world exploded.


	13. Chapter 12

Meg backed away, stunned. There wasn't enough time to contemplate just what she had seen. Without realizing it, she moved her hand to her hip, feeling the thick tights, reassuring herself-- but there was no time. Her mother was already screaming beside her, one voice in thousands, it seemed, but the expression was different.

Already, there was panic settling in. The chandelier wavered and began to sway above them. The audience, shocked, began to move like a human tide, trampling and shoving and yelling. Some didn't even see the chandelier; some, trampled underfoot, couldn't look up at it. But yet it fell, faster and faster, and Meg too began to run.

She didn't know where.

All she knew was that he was alone, vulnerable… But he wasn't alone, she reminded himself. He was with her.

That little girl! Meg's mind was in turmoil.

She didn't have time to think about it.

Instead, she kept on running. It had been only the briefest of quick-changes that had allowed Meg to trade her flamenco costume for a white shirt and pants, and yet she was glad. She sprinted along the corridor, following her mother, who was leading people from the backstage areas out towards exits.

"Maman!" Meg screamed, and her mother turned.

"Meg, help them, get them out!"

Meg was going to respond, but Raoul crashed into her, pushing her aside. "Where did he take her?"

"Come with me, Monsieur! I will take you to him!"

"I'll go with you!" Meg cut in, already knowing the answer.

"No, Meg! No. You must stay here--"

"Maman, please--"

"Do as I say!"

Madam Giry dragged Raoul behind her, sprinting as Meg had never seen her do before. Meg panicked; behind her, there was a crowd forming, stagehands and dancers, following Madam Giry because they had no other ideas in their head.

"No, this way!"

Meg pushed them aside as best as she could; someone had opened a door, and now the scent of smoke was drifting towards them, thicker than ever. "Go!"

They listened, trusting, wild-eyed. Some of the bigger men were carrying the little dancers, and Meg saw, with a shudder, that one or two of them were already unconscious from smoke. One went by, her skirt singed.

Meg looked away, covering her mouth with her shirt and breathing as deeply as she could risk. She had to get to her mother; She had to follow them, find him.

She darted off to the side, trying to figure out which way to go. The smoke was filling up the halls now, and the sound of screams and people running had nearly been drowned out by the terrifying roar of fire, a whirling vortex which sucked the oxygen from the air. She could hear windows shattering, feet trampling… terror.

Hastily, Meg darted down a side corridor, running to the only entrance she knew of, the only place that came to mind.

Carlotta's dressing-room mirror.

Meg kicked the door in impatiently, hearing the thin wood splinter away. She knew that so many of the walls and doors in the opera building had been built, torn down, and built again to suit the tastes of the current managers. She wasn't strong, but she didn't need to be.

She pushed the remains of the door open, running to the mirror. It was closed. Meg pressed her fingers to the corners, the molding, above, below, everywhere. Finally, she stepped back, angry… and saw a tiny glint, up higher than she had seen.

Jumping up, she managed to touch it, and the mirror creaked in response. She pressed it open, and ran through, but forgot to close it behind her.

The corridor was still damp, dark, and filled with rats, but she ran onwards, grateful again for her practical black boots and lack of crinoline. The path twisted and turned, going deeper and deeper until light and fresh air was just a memory. It was a penetrating darkness, down and down, and Meg put out her hands to guide her. She didn't know that any false step could have triggered several traps, or that, as she stumbled down the corridor, heading towards a fate and a man she hardly knew, he was discovering just what that voice, so very long ago, had meant, wrapped underneath such layers of sadness and regret.

He was making his choice, embracing his angel and releasing her.

But Meg kept moving, slowing down as panic welled up once again. She had the urge to scream; the sensory deprivation was bearing down like a lead weight. Finally, her aching eyes strained to make out what seemed to be a smoldering torch set into a crook in the wall. She grabbed it, intending to carry it with her, and heard the rumble as the wall moved sideways.

Unhesitating, she ran through. Something in her blood guided her, she felt, and her senses were alive and alert. A sudden splash made her hesitate only a moment; she had come into a pool of water, and, from what she could make out, the glisten of its reflection stretched on endlessly.

Meg turned, hopeless, wondering if she had come the right way. But no--she paused, hearing it again. A man was crying, screaming for someone, or something. And there was a boat coming, passing her by.

She pressed herself up against the wall, hiding herself in the darkness which swallowed her like a bug.

There, not fifty feet away, passed a boat with a shimmering gold-haired woman in it. She looked like she was wearing a wedding gown, but they were too shrouded in darkness to be sure. The man seated in the boat pushed down with the pole, propelling them along, out of sight.

Meg edged onwards, pressing out with her foot and feeling that she was actually standing on a narrow ledge, only two feet deep, in water that was much, much deeper. Slowly, she moved forward, till at last she saw a raised portcullis, dripping with moss and water.

It was his lair--his space.

Meg's eyes were wide, taking in the golden splendor of it, the rich reds and candles and music and drawings--so many drawings--all of Christine.

There was a flutter of a curtain; Meg waded up towards the shoreline and saw that pieces of shattered mirror were strewn about the ground. The velvet curtain swayed, but it must have been the wind.

Meg saw something that made her heart break.

It lay on its side, that piece of humanity that he had tried so desperately to carve out for himself, staring eyelessly up at her through charcoal-smudged ivory leather.

His mask.

She knelt, reverently, and lifted it. Turning it over in her hands, she examined the back of it. It was rougher than she had guessed, and, here and there, little flecks of blood, both new and dark, stained it.

He had worn it until it conformed to his face; he had bled into it, as if he could have imbued it with life.

Men were coming behind her; Meg stood up, still grasping the mask.

"Go…" her voice broke. "He isn't here. I looked. Go."

The guards--hired hands, Raoul's men--hesitated.

"Raoul and Christine have left." Meg pointed out towards the raised portcullis. "You should see to them.

The men sneered, lifting their torches and walking amongst the artwork, the models, the home that was now lifeless.

"Get out of here, girlie. Go run to your mum already."

Meg bowed her head, and, seeing a boat, entered it, pushing herself along, not looking back, even when the sounds of destruction echoed in the cavern. They were destroying it, all of it, everything he had ever called his own.

She couldn't bear to watch.

At the end of the river, Meg saw her mother standing there, and leapt out of the boat.

Slowly, Meg followed her mother back out of the cellars. They walked wordlessly, purposefully, until they came to a strange exit on the Rue Scribe.

"What will we do?" Meg's voice was husky from the smoke.

"What we must."


	14. Chapter 13

Meg's eyes adjusted to the twilight that surrounded them. Above them, the sky was shrouded in thick smoke, and the opera was burning unceasingly, now that gossip wasn't its only fuel. Madam Giry walked on, limping slightly, and Meg tried to catch her breath.

She looked down, realizing that her hand was still clasped about the leather mask. Her knuckles were white.

"Maman… you're limping."

"Marguerite." The tone of her voice was startlingly raw. "I'm so sorry, my daughter."

"For what?"

"For everything." She lowered her eyes. "For nothing."

Meg walked beside her in silence. Everything they owned was burning as well. Yet that was not what made her heartsick.

"Do you think… is he safe?"

Madam Giry wiped a tear away. "We'll never know. Perhaps… perhaps that is best."

They walked on in silence, a strange calm settling around them as the night air cleared.

"Where are we going?"

"My cousin has a house, not far from here. We can stay there for a while, I hope."

Oddly enough, the fact that her mother was just as unsettled as she was began to give Meg hope. She realized that her mother was human; a strange thought, of course, but a welcome one. They were both adaptable; they would manage. They always had.

The walk was long and Meg soon felt that her lungs were going to burst. They ached so very much from the smoke, and her eyes just would not stop watering. It seemed like nearly an hour before Madam Giry paused in front of an older-style house, packed together with the others like a row of tin soldiers. It was painted green, as far as she could tell, and they started up the steps to knock on the door.

"Agathe!" A stout woman opened the door, her mouth open. "Oh dear, the Opera on fire? What is going on?"

They were ushered in amidst a flurry of questions, settled down for tea and biscuits. Meg sipped the tea after it had cooled, but didn't eat the biscuits. She was too fascinated, listening to her mother explain choice details, their situation, and what was to become of them.

"Well, of course you'll stay here!" The plump-faced woman, who they had come to know was named Élise, made it less of a question and more of a demand. "Heavens, Agathe, you know you are always welcome here."

"And little Meg, too, of course." But Élise did not meet Meg's gaze.

But Meg was too tired to contemplate this oddity. Within a half of an hour, they had found nightclothes for them, soap, towels, and shown them to the apartment which was underneath the house.

"Usually we try and rent it out, but our last tenant moved out a few weeks past." Élise smiled. "You stay as long as you need…"

"You are too kind…" Meg heard her mother say. "I know we have not been--"

"Think nothing of it."

"Very well." Madam Giry smiled. "Thank you."

"Good night, then."

Élise shut the door, and Meg let out a sigh she hadn't realized she held. Her lip was caked with blood, which she tasted now, moving her tongue experimentally along the bite.

It was salty, familiar, bitter… She swiped her hand along it, doing what she could to clean it, unaware that all she did was smudge blood and soot along her face.

"Come, Meg."

Her mother had found the little wash basin and ewer, pretty white and blue porcelain, chipped in places and clearly second-best. Madam Giry poured the water into the basin and dipped in a towel. She reached up to swab her daughter's face.

Meg submitted to her mother's touch. She wanted to ask a million questions, but resisted.

"Maman, what will we do now? Do you think the opera will ever open again?"

"Even if it did," Madam Giry sighed. "I would not return."

"Why not?"

She put down the cloth and looked at the dirt and blood which now coated the surface of the towel.

"I pushed you into a terrible world, Meg. A terrible, wonderful, dangerous world. I never gave you a choice, and for that--"

"No, don't apologize." Meg interrupted. It was unsettling to hear her normally-stoic mother be so distraught, so apologetic. "I love to dance, I always have! Didn't you find me in your dressing room when I was, oh, five was it? Trying on your old slippers? Whirling about with my arms like this?"

She gestured with her arms an approximation of a child's untrained dance, trying to force a grin from her mother's lips. "Dancing is my world!"

"I pulled you away from your passions… remember, those drawings…?"

"They were just doodles." Meg's hands sunk back down into her lap. "They didn't mean anything."

"They were much more than that."

Meg fell silent as her mother resumed the cleaning. She moved to Meg's hands, gently removing the mask from her grip, wiping her fingers clean.

They didn't speak as they both unbound their hair, took turns brushing it, washed, and made ready for sleep. In borrowed nightgowns, they sunk down into the bed. Meg's lungs were still filled with smoke, it seemed; her mind was still filled with questions.


End file.
